Walking on the Sea of Clouds

by Gray Rinehart

  “We have a proposition,” Frank said.

  Before Jim could express his noncommittal reply, Stormie said, “Jim, I know the AC is charging a premium on these shots, and I’m convinced they’re not really necessary. I want to see about stopping them.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re useless,” Jim said, “but we’re stuck for the moment. I’ve gone straight at them, I’ve tried end runs, but they’re sticking with this decision. They won’t even give me results of the blood samples they take. Once you’re out, we can have our own samples taken, maybe arrange our own treatments and medications to go up with you when you launch, but there’s not much we can do while you’re trapped inside there.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it’s not just that the interferon is expensive, I think the protocol is making me sick just by itself. I’m not sleeping well, and I’ve had more headaches the past two weeks than I had the past two years.”

  “That could be stress,” Jim said.

  “Granted,” Stormie said, “but where do you think the extra stress is coming from? It’s got to be connected to this whole issue.”

  “Frank, how about you?”

  “I am, perhaps, more fatigued than usual.”

  Jim spun a pen around on his desk. “So what do you propose?”

  “Another pico-scrub,” Stormie said.

  Shortly after the turn of the century, when the real estate boom peaked and started its downward slide, one of Jim’s accountant friends told him he’d had a “vision of bankruptcy.” Jim had always considered it a vague and poetic notion, up until that very minute. Jim’s vision of bankruptcy consisted of a series of memories that came as much in words and numbers as they did in sensations or emotions: his first day at the Paszek Group, fresh out of JPL and starting his second career, still aching so shortly after Meredith died; Morris Hansen contacting him a few months after Alyson died, when Hansen was looking for ways to invest his billions and wanted Jim’s advice because Jim knew finance as it related to space projects; Frank and Stormie showing up in his hospital room three weeks after his own accident, pitching their company and offering him a stake in it. It seemed as if each of the events that threatened to twist and tear him was followed by a new opportunity, a chance to occupy his mind and avoid driving himself crazy … but in this current vision he saw nothing new coming to his rescue.

  “Jim, are you still there?” Stormie asked.

  “Yeah, Stormie. I was just thinking.”

  “Hear me out, okay? I have no reason to doubt that the Consortium will demand a full year of these treatments, even though they wouldn’t be that effective even if we had this brand of hepatitis. That’s still nine more months after we get out of here, thirty-six or so doses of interferon each, versus a week-long treatment if we go through another pathogen scrub.”

  Jim shook his head, an automatic display of disbelief that went unappreciated. “I can’t believe you’d sign up for another round of that. That’s like a healthy person signing up for chemo. I thought the last round almost killed you.”

  The time delay lasted a few seconds longer than it should.

  Frank said, “It was … unpleasant, yes.”

  “But now we know what we’re up against,” Stormie said. “We know what to expect, and we can be prepared for it. Like they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

  Jim wasn’t sure “they” ever knew what they were talking about. He considered for a moment whether his accident, or the losses he had just been thinking about, made him any stronger. He didn’t think so.

  “Jim, I’m speaking only for myself now. Truth is, I don’t know how long I can keep up with this medication. If nothing else, this is the most expedient way to go.…” Stormie’s voice trailed off as, under her breath but loud enough for the microphone to pick up, she said, “This is my prayer for healing.”

  “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Jim said, “but I’ll run the numbers and let you know. Or better yet, if you’re absolutely sure, I’ll run the numbers and if they’re favorable I’ll start negotiations. But don’t hope for too much.” He hoped he sounded upbeat, though he was afraid of how the debits and credits were going to stack up.

  “James,” Frank said, “I am certain I share your reservations, but this seems to us to be the best way to move beyond this situation.”

  “You’re probably right, Frank.” But you don’t know how thin our margin really is.

  Jim tapped the Rolodex icon on his tablet and started pulling up the profiles and electronic business cards of people he hadn’t yet tapped as investors—and a couple he already had. He would find a way to keep their company solvent, even if it meant he had to find the money to torture his friends.

  But it was still if. Which meant he needed to do all he could to make the answer “no.” He opened another part of his Rolodex. He could start with Huang—

  “Let me make some calls,” he said. “Give me an hour.”

  * * *

  James called back forty-eight minutes later. Before Frank could ask, Stormie said, “What’d you find out, Jim?”

  James’s voice crackled from the speaker. “I went through four AC functionaries with your proposal. It didn’t give me as much leverage as I’d hoped it would.”

  Frank sighed like an airlock depressurizing. “What does that mean, James?”

  “Want to do the old ‘good news, bad news’ thing?”

  “Absolutely not,” Stormie said.

  “Okay, then it’ll be ‘bad news, good news.’ The bad news is that the cost of that treatment will put us out of business.”

  Stormie turned her head away from Frank. She rubbed her hands together as if she was washing them.

  “James,” Frank said, “I must ask. Are you sure?” He did not want to hear the answer.

  “I’ll put it this way: We would have to dig up some new investors to cover it, and I’m not sure how many people would want to sign on at this point.”

  “I understand.”

  Stormie sniffed, and said, “Is that all the bad news, or is there more? Was there ever any good news?”

  “No,” James said, “that’s enough bad news for one day. And there is some good news.”

  No one spoke. Frank shifted his weight, and the stool squeaked on the floor. He said, “What is the good news, James?”

  “I started with Huang Wenbin—I don’t think you know him—and worked my way through a few more people, and I told each of them your idea. I said that rather than have their people do it, I’d contract with another hospital that would do it cheaper, and that I’d need all the lab results to turn over to the new facility. They all balked, as I figured they would, even though we’re entitled to the data.

  “Huang called me back right at the end. He’d received authorization to tell me that every blood test you’ve had has come back negative, and that Dr. Nguyen is working to convince the bosses that if you haven’t shown any sign of this or any other strain of hepatitis yet, you’re not going to.”

  Stormie stopped wringing her hands. She leaned close to the console and said, “Don’t tease us like that, Jim.”

  James said, “No teasing, no joking, no pulling your leg. You’re almost free and clear. They may press for a few more weeks of interferon and tests, but I’ve told them that they have to start paying for the treatments since they’re unnecessary. Even any additional bloodwork that’s for their convenience instead of medically necessary, I will hang the cost of it on them.

  “I told you it was good news. It’s your own fault that you didn’t want the good news first.”

  Stormie leaned over and nestled against Frank. The way she leaned sideways on the little stool was awkward, but he gathered her to his chest and kissed her temple.

  Stormie said, “That’s a dirty trick, Jim.”

  Frank agreed. “Yes, James. You did not have to make up a story about an impending bankruptcy.”

  The delay became a pause, as if James was formulating a snappy reply. But
all he said was, “Yeah, sorry about that, guys.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  All the Proper Courtesies

  Tuesday, 23 January 2035

  Barbara Richards walked out of the Asteroid Consortium’s unassuming little office building adjacent to the San Diego airport. She didn’t miss the bracing Montana air as much as she thought she would, but she missed the open spaces. She ignored the little garden around her, with its purplish flowers that had the temerity to bloom in January; instead she turned her face to the Sun and closed her eyes, soaking in the comforting warmth. From a distance, muffled by the greenery and the low decorative wall around this break area, a plane’s thrust reversers kicked in and then faded as if to say, “We’ve arrived.”

  She’d been in San Diego for a day, waiting for Van to drop out of the sky. Not that she’d be able to see it, except on video: he would splash into the Pacific far offshore. Years ago, NASA gave up on the Space Shuttle in favor of old-style capsules that landed in the desert, the way the Russians landed Soyuz spacecraft on the steppes, on the theory that simple is better. The AC had weighed the possibility of landing in the open desert, but NASA wouldn’t give up range time and too much of the accessible desert was covered over with biogenerated solar arrays. And since the Consortium’s operating principles were “don’t invent what’s already invented” and “simplest is best,” they followed other companies’ leads and went back to splashdown operations—only on a larger scale, since they planned on sending up more people and moving more cargo at a time. When other launch company commitments interfered with AC plans, the European Space Agency had been very accommodating in terms of adapting their newest generation of Ariane heavy lifters to the AC’s vehicles, especially considering the Consortium launched an extra unit along with almost every crewed one. Barbara’s first work with the AC had been doing analyses of the launch vehicle interfaces. Now they had a depot of sorts in medium-earth orbit, with a dozen “dropsules” that they could press into service fairly quickly; enough, given the constraints of orbital mechanics, to rescue a newly-launched crew stranded in low-earth orbit or even to rescue evacuees if the Clarke station had to be abandoned.

  Barbara breathed in the sweet-scented air. She didn’t actually have to be in San Diego; she could’ve stayed in Montana until Van was safely down and then flown in for his arrival at the port, but she needed a getaway. She needed time to think.

  Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her windbreaker. “Hello?” she said.

  “We’re starting to see something, Barbara,” said Datu Nguyen. He was inside, watching the video from the landing zone. His wife Jovelyn was dropping in with Van and the others.

  “Thanks,” Barbara said, “I’ll be right there.”

  She carded back into the building with her Consortium ID, a little annoyed that they couldn’t just program the system to recognize her datacard, and made her way down the hall to the video center. The big screen on the wall gave it the look of a theater, though the seating was standard conference room furniture. No conference table for this event, though: only rows of chairs and a single table at the back with snacks and drinks.

  Barbara took in the status with a glance. The split screen showed a swath of blue sky on the left, and a graphic on the right that combined the planned trajectory with radar returns from the recovery vessel. She poured some Sprite into one of the deep blue glasses, added ice from the bucket, and sat in an empty chair along the wall.

  The video feed came from the Motor Vessel Independence, once owned by the Air Force and intended to recover STS boosters when the Shuttle launched from Vandenberg, which it never did. The tribal chieftain—Barbara couldn’t remember what tribe, though she was sure she had known it when she and Van were stationed there—had hexed that launch site pretty well for a few years, and it still wasn’t as active as everyone had hoped it would be. M/V Independence had berthed at Port Hueneme for many years, taking turns as a research vessel and a recovery ship for Navy search and salvage missions, until the Consortium bought her, refitted her, and based her at San Diego. She was an old ship, but a good one.

  They also bought a small fleet of unmanned aerial vehicles that they flew as spotters—from little seagull-sized drones that launched off the ship up to a couple of surplus, refurbished Predators they flew from the San Diego airport—and a couple of fast hydrofoils that trailed the Indy and were operated by remote control from the ship’s bridge. It was cheaper, Barbara supposed, than paying crews for each vessel. Simplest is best.

  The video feed wasn’t great, but Barbara cheered with the rest of the gathered crowd as the cameras picked up the ungainly craft suspended by its giant parachutes, rocking slightly from side to side as it descended. She braced herself in her chair as the dropsule smacked the water, then relaxed back into the pro forma cushion and finished her drink. Someone offered her champagne, but she got up and poured herself another Sprite as the hydrofoils approached the dropsule from opposite sides and stabilized it until the Indy got there.

  Barbara stayed at the party until the crew got off safely. They transferred one by one to the Independence, waving at the camera. Van was scruffy but he smiled and waved as he made his way up the temporary gangplank. She watched to see if his knee was still bothering him, but couldn’t really tell: they all wobbled a little, whether from the sea or from getting used to full gravity she wasn’t sure.

  She said her goodbyes after the lunar setup crew was safely aboard the recovery vessel. Now they would rig everything for towing and start back, a trip that would take about seventy-two hours—a little less than their trip from the Moon had taken. More time to think before Van was back. She hoped it would be enough.

  She walked through the building to the main entrance this time, and stepped outside again into the glorious California afternoon. She got in her rental car, but left the door open to feel the breeze as she looked at the area map. She had just decided to go to Tecolote Canyon and walk around the park when her cell phone rang.

  She didn’t recognize the number, and almost ignored the call. But just before the voicemail could grab it, she acquiesced. “Hello?”

  “Hey, love of my life, it’s me.”

  “Van? How are you calling me so quick? I just watched you land.”

  He laughed. “We ‘spoofed’ to see who got to use the sat phone first, and I got out on the initial call. The rest of them are still playing to see where they line up. So, you made it to San Diego okay?”

  The connection was a little scratchy, either from the satellite link or her cell phone, but Van’s excitement was clear. They all must be high on adrenaline; she was surprised they didn’t arm-wrestle or something instead of playing a round of “spoof”—standing in a circle guessing how many coins they all were holding—to see what order they could make their personal calls. She always hated that game.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Barbara said. “I was about to take myself on a little hike. You think you’ll get underway soon?”

  “Looks like. They’re working hard enough getting everything tied down.” He was interrupted by some commotion in the background. “I’m being mobbed by the rest of the crew—I think they said Grace lost, so she has to go last, and she was offering sexual favors to swap places with someone else.”

  Barbara tightened her grip on the phone, but she tried to keep her voice light. “Then I’m glad you’re already on the line. I wouldn’t want you to be too tempted.”

  She didn’t like the pause on the other end.

  “Babe, I don’t want to be tempted any more, either,” he said, his voice low and slow. “It’s hard to be away from you, and I’m glad to be coming back. You staying in town until I get back?”

  For a second, Barbara wished she wasn’t: his choice of words irritated and confused her. Tempted any more? Pressure rose from her gut as if she were getting ready to spew more than just words. A little adrenaline rush of her own hit her. She stopped the retort she was readying and took a deep breath. Now is not the time.<
br />
  “Look for me on the wharf on Friday,” she said. “I’ll be wearing a red dress.”

  “I can’t wait, babe,” Van said, and the truth was clear in his voice. She breathed a little easier as he repeated, “I can’t wait.”

  * * *

  Friday, 26 January 2035

  Van was at the bow when M/V Independence entered the harbor and the little boat came alongside and dropped off the pilot. Van had spent hours at the bow over the past few days, watching the dolphins frolicking in front of the ship; it was a lot more comfortable than walking around, which hurt his knee worse than ever since he was under full gravity again. He was glad of the knee brace he wore, but even standing still hurt, depending on how much weight he put on that leg. Having to develop “sea legs” in a hurry did not help at all.

  Despite that pain and the sure knowledge that the first kick would separate his lower leg from the rest of his body, Van fought the urge to jump overboard and swim to the dock. Not that he could’ve found his way, of course. That’s why harbors provide pilots.

  The pilot boat pulled away and the sound of gulls took over the cool, crisp afternoon. Land slipped by the ship as it negotiated the passage, and Van stayed in the bow. He scanned the wharf as they approached their berth. About two dozen people were split up into five little groups, and as the ship’s horn announced their arrival they cheered and waved.

  Four of the women on the dock had on red dresses, but he picked out Barbara quick enough. Her dress was a deep, almost fire engine red, and she was wearing a light-colored shawl or cape to keep the wind off her arms.

  It took twenty minutes to get the vessel secure and the gangplank in place. He limped from the ship, and smiled to cover the grimace. When he stood in front of her, she looked him up and down and nodded in approval.

  “Well,” she said, “who are you trying to impress?”